More later, but first ….

Yeah, the urge to capture life’s little nuances and vicissitudes via the miracle of blogging is tempting, indeed. But I’m kind of a wounded pup right now. Went to bed early, exhausted, got up this morning, scraped together what’s left of my current financial nest egg, borrowed an additional twenty, walked five or so miles east to the storage place out past where the Cattle Club used to be, dealt with some overstuffed blonde with a bad attitude, who wanted an additional sixty but settled for what I had, so I can keep what’s left of the stuff I still theoretically own out of the drooling mandibles of auctioneers for another thirty days, then walked through the college and along the levee of the American River, which gave me a good dose of privet pollen, and then west on H Street, stopping at the Rose Garden at McKinley Park for a half hour or so to take in some floral beauty and admire a very tiny middle-aged Southeast Asian couple, she in purple, green, black and white ethnic finery and he in a dark suit with a funny tie, a westernized younger woman who I assumed was their daughter snapping photos, and then I continued west, past the two lady motorcycle cops off H at 27th Street, waiting to ding motorists and fatten the city coffers for those infamous California rolling stops, and onward past a for-sale Victorian at 2307 H, where three women were discussing who was going to get what apartment when they bought the building, and I got to tell them my story of living there in 1991-1993, and how that house is seriously haunted. I moved there when I left the mother of my daughter, drank whiskey like a goddamn Okie ditchdigger for a year and a half, and then got sober and moved out a year later. During that time, I had some mighty strange visitations — eerie white things jumping over me, running the length of the house to a door that suddenly flew open and then slammed shut, voices in a secret stairwell, which when I would go to examine, the door would fly open and I would get blasted with a gust of ice-cold air on a 100-degree summer day.

Good times.

And don’t you love old video games? Dunno how this guy captured my marriage experience, but it is a marvel, indeed. Anyway, got back here, fell asleep sitting up, woke up, went to the bodega catercorner from here, sucked down a Gatorade, came back. I’ve got enough to get me two veggie tacos at La Garancha over at 16th and U Streets, so gotta head there for now. I haven’t eaten all day. Got money coming in tomorrow, and some more janitorial work later in the week, plus a couple of days’ work in San Francisco stripping and refinishing a floor with my janitorial service friend. Oh, and I am playing music Tuesday, June 1 at Dad’s Kitchen, which is located at 2968 Freeport Boulevard, adjacent to Freeport Bakery, from 6-8 p.m. If you like my blog, maybe you’ll like my songs, too.

Last week at this time, I was still employed. This week? Nuh, mon. Life changes daily. —Jackson Griffith